


The cat that went too far

by aleclestrade (meddowstaylor)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mycroft catches feelings, Oblivious Mycroft, but a lot of soft Greg as well, edwardian author references, friends with benefits to declaring their love, mycroft's cat is the matchmaker, squint and you miss it dominant Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meddowstaylor/pseuds/aleclestrade
Summary: Mycroft and Greg have the perfect arrangement- no string attached, blowing off steam, amazing sex. Even Greg seems to be on board with the plan, to Mycroft's surprise. There's only one problem: Greg is the sweetest guy around Mycroft's cat, and the famous Ice-man might be catching feelings.(From a reddit post: "My fuckbuddy is kind to my cat and my cat likes him. I'm starting to have feelings for him because of that")
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 18
Kudos: 165





	The cat that went too far

**Author's Note:**

> I had two friendly apparitions come in the middle of the night and make me write this. To jae and Yves, my immense gratitude! (and my hours of sleep these couple of days)

Mycroft would call what he and Lestrade had an “amicable understanding”. He had heard Lestrade refer to it as a “fuck buddy situation” but he was sure it was solely to piss him off, as he resented the word “buddy” and it’s derivatives. The other part, while cruder, was exactly accurate. That was what they did, after all. A more thorough description would be that they were two adults who had known each other for quite some time and now were instrumental in helping one another relieve some stress by having spectacular sex. Mycroft had always been dubious about those kind of agreements - which were more common than what people thought -, mainly because he feared how complications could get in the way. More so with someone he knew and valued. The thought of tearing off Lestrade’s trench coat and the suit underneath it had crossed Mycroft’s mind on more than one occasion, especially when he was refusing to cooperate on a case when Mycroft had to take over. For years it were those frustrating moments that would cloud Mycroft’s mind with lust. 

The day it had finally happened they weren’t particularly annoyed with each other, only incredibly exhausted from their obligations. Mycroft had had to let a brilliant recent Oxford graduate go because the person coming in to fill her position was a minister’s grandson. No matter how many years he had been involved in the push and pull of high-level nepotism, it still got to him. Lestrade had found out a killer had gotten to walk free because two officers hadn’t dotted the i's and crossed the t’s, and the process was null. He was getting too old to simply brush off the incompetence of the system.

There was a good and discrete bar near the Courtroom and Mycroft’s office. It was pure chance to see Lestrade there, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Mycroft knew that if the Detective Inspector was there and not in the more rowdy places he went to, it meant he wanted to be alone, but he also felt it would be more awkward to only acknowledge his presence from afar with a single nod. They had met by chance and ended the night wrapped between each other and his soft sheets. It felt like the other shoe had finally dropped, ten years too late. 

It was the best stress reliever Mycroft had tried, but the moment Lestrade had come out of the shower and seemed as satisfied as him, they had set some ground rules. Well, Mycroft mostly had. Gregory had just nodded and agreed, more preoccupied with running a finger from Mycroft’s neck to his hip bone and staring smugly at the trail of goosebumps it left. 

Distracting, to say the least.

But, against the odds, everything had gone smoothly. Lestrade had been most accommodating, having no qualms about arranging their meetings at Mycroft’s house. Even when it was he who sent the text messages, he would drive all the way there. Mycroft still hated to text, but whenever his phone would go off now, his body reacted with anticipation. His hands would itch, his legs would seem heavy and he would feel his pulse against his wristwatch. Like a timer, it counted down the moments until Gregory would be outside his door. 

It was a mere physical reaction. They had adjusted perfectly - the right amount of small talk, the perfect ratio of lingering looks to glasses of scotch, the mind-blowing sex that only seemed to get better and better as they got more comfortable around each other.  
Purely attraction, bodies seeking bodies, a chemical solution. 

Gregory had surprised Mycroft by not being very sentimental about what went down. He didn’t like to bring his problems to their encounters or even discuss what was bothering him the days Mycroft could tell he was particularly tense. Once, when they had had to discuss a shared case and Mycroft had gotten winded talking about a new development, Lestrade had shut him off with a forceful kiss. “Come by the Met tomorrow. We won’t do this here”, he declared. The topic was forgotten as soon as he started marking a bite above Mycroft’s shoulder that meant when he went to NSY the next morning he had to keep his scarf on.  
Gregory Lestrade, one of the kindest and most considerate people Mycroft knew, was nothing but thrusts, grunts and no strings attached in privacy.

There was someone in the house with whom Gregory showed his warmhearted side - Benson. Few people had met the little beast because he only lounged around in Mycroft’s home, but now he was showered with attention. 

Benson’s real name was E.F. Benson. Gregory called him “Ben”. That didn’t annoy Mycroft as much as he would have expected - it was the fact that the cat and the man got along so great. As soon as he had appeared cheerfully meowing, running around the living room, he had stuck to Lestrade’s legs. He had crutched down to the cat’s level and said “Hey mate, who are you?”. He had scratched behind his soft ears and the little rascal had purred for him, making Gregory laugh an honest chuckle. He had caught Mycroft looking but he didn’t seem mortified at all. As they had locked eyes his expression had changed and he had gotten up, undone all the buttons of his shirt, and kissed Mycroft with force. They didn’t even make it to the bed that night. Afterward, as Mycroft woke up on the couch and trailed to the kitchen, he had found a bare-chested Gregory making tea with Benson in his arms. As he handed Mycroft his cup and he lowered the cat on the floor - who refused to part from him-, he mentioned: “I always fancied you with a posh cat, a Persian or Bengal, or some special dog a dignified ambassador gifted you.”

“Cats are far more independent than dogs, Gregory.” Lestrade kept looking at him with mirth, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. A bit of personal talk to put the subject to rest wouldn’t hurt. “If you have to know, Anthea’s nephew was visiting and found him outside Whitehall. He kept hissing at everyone. The child simply wouldn’t stop crying until one of us swore we’d give him a home. Anthea’s allergic so I was the only choice.”

“Mycroft Holmes, housing rescue cats and keeping promises to crying kids. You’re one big surprise after the other”, he laughed.

Mycroft shifted against the kitchen table, not sure how to navigate the changing atmosphere.  
“Come here, you,” Lestrade grabbed at Mycroft’s pyjama bottoms. “Keep surprising me”, he said in the distinct hoarse voice he used whenever he wanted to make Mycroft’s knees shake. 

——

This went on for a while - both the amazing sex and the growing bond between Benson and Gregory. He’d get to Mycroft place and scoop him up, putting his most cheerful voice and going “Hiya lad, how’s everything with you?”. Mycroft would pretend to be paying attention to fixing the drinks as he listened to the laughs and the meows. Lestrade would tell Benson about his day. About his new cases. About missing his nephews. Then he would take the drink Mycroft offered and would have him pinned against his mattress or the closest wall there was in less than five minutes. Mycroft had once asked him about a case only to make small talk while they made toasts to go with their 3 am tea, and felt himself blush as he realised Gregory hadn’t precisely shared that information with him, but with the cat.  
Mycroft wasn’t even sure Benson liked him as much as he liked Lestrade, but as he got to spend more time with the Detective Inspector, he couldn’t blame the creature. The cat liked almost no-one. Mycroft felt he only tolerated him because he fed him. 

Once, after a night where Mycroft had woken up cuddling Gregory, Benson had jumped into bed first thing in the morning. “Good day to you too” Lestrade had mumbled half-awake, placed the cat between both of them, and stretched his arms towards Mycroft before dozing off again. As Greg was leaving, Benson had started wallowing and screaming, following him around all the way to the door. “Lad, I can’t bring you with me to the Yard. We have sniffer dogs there, they’d kill you”. Mycroft had picked the cat up, who lightly scratched at him, and Gregory had leaned in to kiss him goodbye. “Can’t bring you either, darlin’, the same sniffer dogs are set to smell a Holmes kilometers away”. Benson had cried the whole morning and refused to leave the couch by the fireplace.

Mycroft had to agree that watching Gregory leave was getting more awful each morning. He was perfectly content with their arrangement but now found himself absentmindedly smiling when remembering how Greg had put on the most ridiculous voice to talk to the cat.  
Mycroft had always paid attention to Lestrade. Had always found him trustworthy, competent. Had secretly gotten a rush whenever he would see him handling his team, yelling out orders, and standing up to fellow detectives. Mycroft had found now he got the same thrill when Gregory would hold his legs in place, sometimes leaving marks in his thighs, telling him -demanding- he wouldn’t move.

The same man who had shown up with milk one day, not for tea, but because he wanted to see if Benson liked it as much as cats in cartoons did. 

Mycroft had started anticipating their meetings for different reasons. Had wanted Gregory to stay longer in the mornings or come by earlier in the night, but never dared ask. He wanted to hear about his troubles, what differentiated a good day from a bad day for him. He wished to be able to confide in him his own hardships and accomplishments, explain why he needed to be fucked slowly one night, silently and quickly the next. He had become one of those people that made that kind of arrangement not work by developing feelings he shouldn’t have. Damn the cat. 

——  
Lestrade always said “See you around, Ben” and Mycroft would have been pissed if it wasn’t a reassurance that he would return. Mycroft clung to those promises.

He was halfway through their customary succinct message exchange (“How are you?” “Good. How are you?” “Stressed” “Okay. I can be there in an hour”) when he realised he really was tired, stressed, preoccupied. All of the euphemisms they often used to not say what they wanted to say. He had fallen asleep in his study armchair and when Gregory rung twice to let him know he was outside, he had looked concerned staring at Mycroft’s face. 

“How are you?”, he asked, ditching the sweatshirt he had thrown over his football uniform. He had come straight from his game, but not even the manly smell of sweat and grass awoken anything in Mycroft. 

“We already went over this”, he replied, waving his mobile. 

“I’m asking for real, Mycroft” Lestrade pressed on. He made his way past the dining room, already taking two cups and putting on the kettle. “You look like shit.”

“Well, thank you” Mycroft pressed his lips, knowing calling him to come over that day had been a bad idea. Lestrade was there for one reason and one reason only, and expecting him to care about Mycroft’s calamitous meeting with the American UN appointee or the dreary phone call with his mother was just fooling himself.

Gregory pulled out a chair next to him and rested his chin on his hand. He wasn’t pushing Mycroft into talking, but he wasn’t pouncing on him like he usually did either. Mycroft had drunk half his tea when Benson came from the guest room, jumping to Lestrade’s lap as soon as he laid eyes on him. 

“Do you know what’s going on, laddie?”, he quickly started caressing his fur the way he knew the cat liked. “Can you tell me what’s bothering him?”. Mycroft looked up and found that the usual softness Gregory reserved for crouching on the floor and cooing at his cat was now directed at him. The tenderness in his eyes shined in a way that Mycroft knew mirrored his own when he would stare at Gregory singing in the mornings. 

Mycroft liked his cat a lot, but he had no reservations about moving him out of the way to place his hands on Greg’s lap as he kissed him. 

———

“Oh, there you are, scoundrel. I had wondered where you had run to”. Gregory stretched and cradled Benson in his arms. 

“Were you really thinking about my cat just before?”, Mycroft teased him, raising his eyebrows. 

“No”, Gregory grinned. “But I always appreciate he is not the kind of pet to sit and stare while I got your cock in my hand. That’d be awkward”. 

Mycroft blushed and half hid beneath Gregory’s arm, as he felt him laughing.

They stayed like that for some minutes, Gregory alternating between placing kisses on Mycroft’s temple and rubbing Benson’s back. 

“I think he really likes you”, Mycroft said. He couldn’t phantom anyone who wouldn’t, actually. 

_"I feel perfectly mad about him just now...Ah, if only he knew, and yet I think he does.”_ , Greg replied. Mycroft stared. “E.F. Benson, right?” Gregory mentioned, a bit smug and proud of himself.

“I can’t believe he gets the poetic, Edwardian, love declaration”, Mycroft huffed. 

Gregory smiled at him softly. “I’ve been perfectly mad about you for years as well, Mycroft. But tell me the truth, if it wasn’t for your cat you wouldn’t have seen it ever, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> Mark has mentioned E.F. Benson being one of his favorite authors, so I borrowed from it (and for his declaration, Greg did as well). I've always liked naming pets after writers, characters o famous people - looks like Mycroft does too.


End file.
